


I Can Tell You Stories Like the Government Tells Lies

by Enjelica



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, Depression, Insomnia, M/M, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 19:06:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12754365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjelica/pseuds/Enjelica
Summary: Grantaire tells Enjolras a late-night story.





	I Can Tell You Stories Like the Government Tells Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I need to get a few things straight: title is a lyric from Anais Mitchell's before the eyes of storytelling girls, dream aspect and most of the storytelling aspect inspired by Arabian nights/the Arabian nights plotline from ghost quartet, last line inspired by a line from soldier and rose from ghost quartet. This was written with a modern au in mind but ended up fitting canon era more so do what you will with that. Without further ado hope you enjoy the fic!

Grantaire sits on the creaking wood floor in a patch of moonlight. He whispering in hushed tones, yet his words carry meaning, a pure form of life, of creativity, of stardust. The stories of a thousand men tired, and hungry, but fighting. Bags under eyes become bags of wealth, and not in the typical sense, a wealth of strength, confidence and perseverance. The words float and weave through the air into a web of complexity, a story personified. Grantaire looks up into Enjolras’ eyes and a feeling of opia sets in. So much is being told in that room at that moment, in those words in that moment, in his eyes as that moment. Enjolras had been anxious, unable to sleep, there were to be risk taken tomorrow and they were possibly irreversible. To attach yourself to the fabric of the world, to sew yourself into history, is a dangerous, powerful, and fickle thing. Enjolras is keeping Grantaire up but Grantaire doesn't mind, it keeps his thoughts elsewhere. Elsewhere than the absolute worst, and elsewhere from the hints of addiction crawling in. It also allows him to stretch his lyrical legs. An artist of multiple trades is more profound than of one. The stars that night seem to hold their breath unsure of what to come once alpenglow hits. They swirl and twist and turn, telling stories of their own, of place and people long lost to the drag of it all, for the pulling of time forward is always a brutal one. Grantaire curls his arms around his knees, uncomfortable at the staring and glaring of the moon outside, a disappointed man ready to strike him for the lack of productivity in his use of time. For telling stories, for drawing, for breathing, instead of being ready at beck and call for any whim. Grantaire stops his story, he doesn't want to tell the end. The men die, but Enjolras doesn't need to hear the right now, doesn't need to hear the cynicism of reality dripping truth into starlight. The room takes a sigh and something shifts. Grantaire starts telling a tale of something else, of dreams and the past. Now Enjolras leans on his shoulder, content with being anywhere but the future.

“I met myself once. In a dream. In the basement of a dingy bar.”, his words are louder now, more sure of themselves, “I walked between grids of pools tables and there I sat. On the floor of the room, of my spirits, of the world. There was no gold in my eyes, no silver in my skin, no sign of life at all, yet I sang. It was low, it was melancholic, and it probably wasn't English, but it was a song and it was all I had to hold onto, the only thing with meaning. I asked myself for some money for a drink. Something strong, something real. I was handed three dimes and a nod, a sign this was all that was left of my worth.” 

By the end his energy drifted out and he was back to a whisper, but now he was sobbing. He didn't know about what or why, but he needed to stop lest he wanted to wake Enjolras, who had dozed off leaning on his shoulder on the floor of moonlight. Grantaire didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow, but he did know that a sparrow had gotten into the house, and he hoped superstitions weren't true that he'd do this next week again, and again after that, every night until there was no more crying, no my sparing of emotions, no more despair. But deep down inside he knew he didn't have the time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, i hoped you enjoyed this and if you want to give your local fix writer lifeblood: give kudos and comment, COMMENT, COMMENT!! Sorry for being a little aggressive, but seriously you don't know how much it means to me. Hope you have a nice day <3


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